BBCSH 'Fretful'
by tigersilver
Summary: Musings on 'when John is ill'. I had to try out the trope at least once, right? Here we go! From Sherlock's POV then, probably set during Season Three, after Mary's reveal and before the final episode. That little period when the Watsons aren't together. This is a bit fluid; please forgive my mess. Been a while lacking, in the writing gig; oh yes! All apologies.


BBCSH 'Fretful'

Author: tigersilver

Rating: PG

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Word Count: 1,500

Warnings/Summary: Musings on 'when John is ill'. I had to try out the trope at least once, right? Here we go! From Sherlock's POV then, probably set during Season Three, after Mary's reveal and before the final episode. That little period when the Watsons aren't together. Also, use of excess punctuation, italics, bolding and jagged narrative style are all deliberate, due to POV.

* * *

John is ill. It is fretful, here in the flat.

I hate fretting, **abhor** it; what a waste of worrisome time spent elsewhere, elsewhen.

Excepting…

Fever's high; not so well for a man his age. Not that he's aging. In particular! A fine specimen of an ex-military man—very, ah? Fit? (He's rolling about, thrashing; this is worrisome, the muttering? What say he?) (John! My John?)

Fit. Even dribbling into his pillow. I've done all those things he would do, the Good Doctor; all these things that Hudders says I should, and that Molly (Molly! My word! For a woman who deals with dead persons, she's remarkably up-and-up on the care of living ones; perhaps it's the cat?) (Must be the cat!)

Moggy. Moggies! Common cats. John's burbling away about them. How he likes them ('So soft and so delightfully cuddly, Mum! May we keep him? He'll be no trouble, I swear!' Bosh! Nonsense!) But then dogs enter into it and he's expressing a repeated and relatively unexpected interest in hounds...er, Bassets, specifically. Basically nattering away on the subject of dogs. Drooley ones…messy? (Reminder; tell John Setters preferable breed.)

Bulldogs? Spaniels? Why them, John? They bloody drool, don't they? Think of my files!

….Or now it's something Mastiff-y. Or the like? (Very garbled, but I can work with that. The loo? Your bedroom?) (There's containment places—oh, bloody hell. You'll be wanting the telly, won't you? Muzzle resting on your knee, soulful eyes and all that rubbish. Well. There goes—oh! It's all right!)

It's all right. (Wipe, wipe, wipe, soothe…John? John. John.)

Please **don't**.

* * *

Are dogs (hmmm…?) That is, are **DOGS** somehow useful and to-the-point in lessening the recuperation period from the common air-bourne virus? Is this common? Is this…specific? Perhaps so. Shall investigate.

Ummm…maybe? Or...not.

(Later; **much** later, but still the same day, I do think; hard to judge, when in John's bedroom; time passes rubbishing slowly here…it's the light.) Regimen continues: cold cloths applied regularly to the forehead and the back of the neck are efficacious; he's bloody sweat-soaked—I can smell him…hmmm?

Smells. Smells…brilliant. Like all of John condensed into a smaller **John,** one I could inhale over and over-oh, right. Bit not good, that. (I shouldn't really. Shouldn't, shouldn't; he'd tell me 'bit not good', but still…yes. Undeniable effect on the caregiver.

Singular.

Yes. That. (Shoot me, please; I've been shot already. Bloody well think I'll come back!)

* * *

Half three. (Will rain today. Tube delays. Expecting a minor theft, two suspected cuckoldings (one male, one female: NO!) and little else. Dull. Fine. Can't be helped.

Returned to wiping him down (dreary! Not so, really...I tell myself but That's Not Right, is it?) I do like his pajamas. Very soft cotton; not like his sheets, no. Need to change them out, though. (Molly and Mrs H, **both**.)

Can't be comfortable, can it? (I know I wouldn't like it; he'd do the same for me…wouldn't he? Give me his, if I needed them. 'Course he would.)

John, John, John? **Why**? You need be well; I'll switch you over to mine on the next go-round of washing down. (I have spares; Hudders has them tucked away somewhere in a closet; shouldn't be too, too difficult to locate?)

"Ah! Mrs. Hudson?"

**But food**. Sustenance, firstly. Um, ah? Chicken soup? Chicken fat, in particular; said to be good for the soul and body—right. That!

"**HUDDERS**? Mis-sus **Hud**-**son**!"

[Mis-**sus**. **Hud**-son! **Bellow**-strength, repeated, stacatto. Walls are thin here, sometimes not thin enough—where is **She**? Always something!)

* * *

Oh, pooh, as if she's not got a soft spot for John Watson; who hasn't? Grumbling on and on about the time, as if that's important! (A small amount of back-and-forth and then off she goes, bless the old dear!) Annoying little cuss. Swears like a soldier (John, that is, not so much Hudders; though she could, absolutely; yes, probably did, years ago.) (John, now. Is a soldier; yes, make note to self: see that uniform on him one day? Medals, full regalia: everything!) But yet 'kind to little old ladies' (ex-pole-dancer; practically kindred souls with an ex-Army-doctor, right? Such runs the dichotomy of people's lives and interests—fascinating! What is it about Ex'es anyway—bloody Sholto!)

(Was always far more to John's taste than that fool was, wasn't I? I was…I think? [SHOLTO! 'Revolto', more like!]

I was, really…but then…and then—stop that! Not productive!)

Case in hand: soup accomplished; spooning it in. With paracetamol. With weak tea, with added extra lemon; not as he likes it, but still, but yet? (Lemsip?)

John?

(Add it to the shopping—oh, yes. Not viable, not right now. No one available to do that—**John**?)

* * *

His eyelashes are gummy; I wipe them clean.

"John?" I ask. I mean, I think I've been maybe muttering a little, murmuring here and there, not too loudly (sickbed) but—"John? John, talk to me. How—how are you feeling? John?"

(He's a fever; he's all about that, aches-and-pains, stupid virus—but a doctor, downed?) (Unthinkable!) Wait, not. Regular exposure, flu vaccine not particularly effective this year; how I despise this locum work he's gone back to. Maybe it all impedes? Silly transport!)

All right. It could be that I prod him a little. Physically. I mean, he's been sleeping the better part of day and his head tends to loll when I'm feeding him and I—just. What's a poke in the long run, between friends.

Just. It's **not** like him. (Or me; who knows what I'm like these days?) He, at least makes more of an effort. So...so determined.

(Oh, yes, **DOGS**.)

I'd love for him not to be ill, to be with me; stringent and, well. All the things that he is, preferably none of them snot-filled and fever-thrown. By which I mean, I'd prefer it. It would be Very. Highly.

Useful.

This is fretful. I am fretting. (Quarter till. Bloody birds.)

This is Sherlock, signing out.

* * *

It is morning. He's staring. I'm awake again, in his chair. The one by his bedside, that he always uses to throw his shirts at—that one. Not important, but somewhere to be.

(I'd have been in his bed if I could. An hour's kip; he'd never have even noticed. But there's no point in going there. No…point. Hardly productive.)

"Sherlock?"

(**Questioning**, John? Really?) As if it's a wondrous thing that I'd be there. As if this were unusual. **As if** he doesn't understand that I would care…as if I'm entirely heartless and low-functioning sociopathic (crescendo!) and therefore unable to wipe sweaty brows with cold clothes (ridiculous!) and administer soup (**absurd**!) and—

"Come," he says, and beckons. Croaks, more like. I hardly know what do to do. Come where? Come how?

Beside you? With your weak wrists and feeble finger clasps, your lowering lids—you're still so ill, beloved—er! **John**.

I meant to say 'John'. I said…nothing. Opened my mouth and said…

Not a thing. (John?)

**So** ill, yet. Can practically feel the heat wafting off him, off the bed itself, burning bright in his eyes. No, John. You don't know who it is—

"John." (He can't mean this; it's too soon; there's too much—he's that ill? A&amp;E maybe!)

"Come. Here." He says this, and looks at me, just so, and it's a revelation. I cannot think, I cannot perceive—I have not a single clue. (I'd like to go, honestly. This chair's bloody cold, even with a—)

"Sherlock, come."

* * *

And, well. I go. I do go. Am going. Clambering in, all bloody limbs akimbo, like some idiot ungulate.) (Blame me, fuck me; I've had enough, yes? Topping it off; all the effing 'Sorry!' **Not** an angel!) And it's warm, here in his still fevered bed; my John. (I so...ahem! him; how can I not? The stubborn little arse, demanding, as if I were his nursemaid, his...thing? That thing one wants when one wants someone. That...thing.)

He kisses me. Lips to lips, off-centre. But with tongue. There's that. I've read about 'tongue'. Most important. It's a bit mucus-filled and snuffly, but it's pretty spectacular, all the same. (Messy; sloppy, I adore it—he's not particular, nor am I? John!)

He's quite warm; from the fever, maybe. Maybe more from me now, warming him. But he's apparently comfortable, and wrapped about me now, and I. And I….and I?

Have never. This is.

I **am**. And…he.

(Is nodding off. Wanker. The 'little shit'; that's what he'd call me, if he were fully conscious, which he is not, decidedly. Fondly. I hope. Truth in mental absentia.)

"Hmm."

I've a comment. Per se. Happy snores—scruffly ones, like dog snores, or 'ancient old men' snores; they are decidedly reassuring; John? John! Is it? Isit, at last? (A DOG might be acceptable...perhaps.)

I'd…very much like to believe so. (He doesn't share his bed lightly—nor his night breathing, the syncopation of it. Nor his dreams.)

I'll. Maybe believe, then, per the evidence.

Since I'm here.

* * *

My neck is damp, gusted with those little open-mouthed breaths people exhale when they are suffering an upper respiratory; it's excessively and strangely soothing. Examining, it wasn't so much the classic Kiss but there was mutual contact and saliva exchanged and the idiot is actually smiling in his sleep (against my neck, leaking a little) and that's.

Yes…that!

**THAT**.

(Don't shoot me, please. I want bees, **now**. The future! I WANT BEES! A MILLION miles an hour, swarming—oh, but, he's breathing slow and falling into deep REM and there's not so much constriction as there was earlier and I—and I?)

(Am…there. As well. Bother.) (Not going. Yawning…why yawning? Oh, right….relaxed. Right. Transport…ah, well.)

(Beside. **Him**.) Settling down: his fever's broken, he's breathing easily—my job is done here? No more stupid soup? No more…tea?)

Mrs Hudson?

Not...necessary. Do it all on my own, yes.

Nope—never done. (Hamish! It's a lifer. Lifetime sentence…oh, ah! **That**! Honey!) (Honey **in** soup—is that edible? No idea: pursue?)

(Efficacious for health, overall—**honey**!)

Always….(health—John's—ageing, together? Yes, please?)

Sleep. Boring. Acceptable. Together. He's breathing into my neck.

(Acceptable, more than. Beautiful man, my man.)

"Hmm...mhmmm..."

(Sussex...him or me? No matter! Sussex!)

* * *

End


End file.
